


Inheritance

by Ariasune



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor referenced gore, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, sibling dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, Rishid inherits Malik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inheritance

Rishid bends his head over her hand, and cries into the back of her knuckles. His tears are hot, and her skin is cold, and it is such a long time before he can be pulled away.

It is his master who reaches out to him, tugging him by the crook of his arm, "Boy," He bids, more gentle than he has ever been with Rishid before, "Your love will do her no help, not now," Rishid meets his gaze, but all he sees is grief in the man's eyes. Dull, faded in the growing darkness, but still true, as he presses a hand on Rishid's shoulder, "Tend to the living."

The sleek child is passed into Rishid's arms, newborn bones as delicate as glass. The babe is greasy, a sloppy mingle of skin and viscera, mucus lining his small mouth. Rishid stares down at the creature that has wrung the life of Rishid's mother out-- but then she was never Rishid's mother; she was this child's mother.

He feels the unmistakable urge to dash the baby against the wall, to see the glass of its bones break, to see its body shatter open like rotted fruit, to see this child slick with its own blood, and the feeling makes Rishid tremble.

In his arms, he can feel the heat of the tiny body fluttering, faltering. Ahead of them, the child's father crouches beside the cooling corpse of his wife, even as the soft noises from the child grow loud in the silent room.

"My Lord," Rishid cannot bear to hold this blood-slick creature any longer.

"Leave me," There is a wave of knuckles, and his master's voice is burning with pain.

Rishid falters, "But, my Lord-"

"Tend to him," the sentence is yowled at him, and Rishid backs away from Lord Ishtar, "He was  _hers_ , and now he is in  _your_ care," and abruptly that decides the matter. The small thing is all that is left of her; a wake of blood, welcoming in its skin.

Rishid dips his head in acquiescence, resettles the boy curled in the ribcage of his arms and leaves the chamber in silence. There are quarters set aside for the child - and it is there that Rishid goes. As he enters, he sees Isis waiting, hidden in the shadow of the doorway. Moving past her, Rishid instead begins prying his shirt off, and settles the little thing against the warmth of his chest. Slowly, his heat begins to pour into the child's body, and the boy quietens at last.

Isis comes to crouch next to him on the cot, cocking her head, as she looks down at her newborn brother. Her face is cool with interest, eyes bright and feverish, as she studies the baby. Finally, she reaches out to toy with his damp hair, inspecting the blond in silence.

Rishid wants to ask her if the Gods have traded fairly, his voice blackened with bitterness. Instead, he brushes at her elbow and she looks at him, startled.

"Isis, fetch me some warm water."

"What about father?" She asks, her voice high and clear as moonlight across sand.

"We must tend to the living," Rishid echoes, and adjusts the snuffling child against him. The boy licks haplessly at a spot by Rishid's collarbone, and guilt settles in his stomach. The small child is hungry, and Rishid cannot arrange for a wet nurse; the Head of the Clan is the only one with the authority for that, "Please fetch me warm water, Isis."

Silent, Isis pushes off the cot, and slips from the room, feet making a delicate sound across the stone ground.

Pulse half-mad with fear, Rishid looks down at the child nestled against his chest, suddenly aware that he can feel the little heart drumming back against his skin. The boy is thin, skin pale, but with a rusty promise of colour already, and his fingers clench against Rishid's body. It is an ugly thing, blanket-wrapped in blood and sticky with the creamy residue of birth, but as Rishid sits up, the child peers at him instinctively. His eyes don't open all the way, eyelids flushed and swollen, but Rishid can see the warm lilac colour of the boy's eyes.

He stares as best he can at Rishid, cross-eyed with the effort, and makes a worrying gurgling noise, that Rishid eventually identifies as content. Rishid almost laughs then, thumbing at the boy's cheek with one hand, drawing another gurgle from the boy.

Cupping the child's head, Rishid watches him until he hears Isis return. She comes up beside him, water sloshing in a bowl, and proffers a washcloth to Rishid. Still gazing at the boy's eyes, Rishid squeezes the excess water from the cloth, before gently wiping mucus away from the baby's mouth, and nose. Transfixed, he dabs at the thin eyelashes, and watches the child blink those half-closed eyes.

Isis kneels beside him, her voice soft with wonder, "He has beautiful eyes."

"Yes," Rishid murmurs, words shivering out of him, unsure of anything, but that they are truthful, "He does."

* * *

"Hush," Rishid murmurs, shifting the sleeping child in the crook of his arm and carefully lifting the child's hands to file his nails down.There is a faint, but definite red line along his chin where his hand had caught, and there is a strong, definite bruise along Rishid's cheek. The boy's scratch is a result of a sudden, curious flail of his arms - young, uneven, haphazard - and when his small, sharp nails had clipped his own jaw, the child had set up a rattling yowl. Rishid had remained silent.

Rishid sets the file aside, running his fingertips over the baby's. There is an immediate clench of his hands, fingers clawing softly around Rishid's. The grip is soft, but desperate and Rishid automatically moves his hand away. As soon as he does, there is a gutter in the child's breathing, and soon the hallways rock with the boy's screams.

Hurrying to his feet, Rishid tries to hush the child with slow turns of his body, but it does nothing as the little one sucks in heaving gulps of air, and spits it back out in whining cries. He is still desperately trying to shush the babe when he sees the boy's father in the doorway, "I- I think he's hungry," Rishid stumbles over an explanation, his cheek stinging, "Can you call Afrah- the wet nurse?"

"No need. Here," Lord Ishtar commands dismissively, gesturing for Rishid to pass the child to him, "Babes cry for nothing sometimes," He settles his son in his arms, and Rishid shuffles from foot to foot, watching his master try to settle the boy. However, it does little to stem the wails, and eventually he passes the child back, "Just let him cry until he's done," There is a considering look, a proud smile, "He has a strong voice."

"He does," Rishid curls the babe against him, and tries to speak over the harsh screaming.

Undeterred, his master continues, "His name is Malik."

"King, Master- a strong name," Rishid can hardly think for the screaming, and his face furrows as he tries to concentrate, however, Malik's father seemed unconcerned. Leaning forward to brush his hand along Malik's cheek, he nods in satisfaction and moves to leave.

Left alone in the room, Rishid rocks Malik and listens to the low, listless howling from the boy. It is a long time until the sounds die off, and by then Malik is still, and exhausted in Rishid's arms.

* * *

Rishid waits for Afrah, straight-backed, hands placed rigidly on his knees, but Malik wriggles in Afrah's arms, discontent with sitting still, "Little viper," Afrah clucks her tongue. She has been calling Malik that ever since he teethed, but always under her breath. Rishid wouldn't have dared, but then he is not  _rada._ As far as Lord Ishtar is concerned, Rishid is no kin of Malik's - but Afrah is Malik's milk-mother and she may call him a snake under her breath.

She looks across at Rishid, expression arch, "How you tolerate this boy, I will never know," Afrah winces, eyebrows furrowing, "Boy has the heart of a jackal."

Rishid simply tightens his fingers in the fabric of his shift. There is a mottling bruise on Rishid's wrist, and it aches when Afrah speaks this way.

"Eh, Rishid?" She tilts her head, eyes flashing in the lamp light, "Grow up like his father, won't he?" She adjusts her hold on Malik, cups his blond head with an irritated expression, toying with the thin strands of hair. Malik writhes, snarling at Afrah and she sways to her feet, studying Rishid, "You should put something on that bruise, Rishid."

"It's fine," Rishid murmurs, moving to take Malik from Afrah, who brushes her hands down on her skirt. Settling immediately, Malik drops his head against Rishid's shoulder, kicking at Rishid's hip with a stray foot. There is a soft coo in his voice.

Afrah looks unconvinced, bracing her hands on her hips, "Well don't complain about it."

Rishid breathes out heavily, failing to swallow his huff; he wasn't complaining about it. He tucks Malik against him, stopping the kicks short and Malik gives a short huff of anger at the loss of freedom, but nestles closer. 

"Viper," Afrah repeats, shaking her head at the boy, "Got a disease in his soul, nasty thing. Never seen a baby bite like this one."

"You shouldn't talk like that," Rishid is quiet, but firm. One hand moving to press against a faded bruise on his face.

"Shouldn't, eh, Rishid?" She gathers the edge of her skirt in one hand, lifting it out of the dust, "True though. Needy, wild thing," Afrah is harsh, but Rishid knows she has lost her own child, and he understands; Malik is a poor replacement for anything, "Get that bruise of yours looked at," She repeats firmly, and points a finger at Malik, wagging it as though he is an animal.

Malik snaps at her, huddling against Rishid, and she turns to give Rishid a pointed look, "Little Viper's got most of his teeth and won't sit still for a feed; I won't be needed here much longer," Afrah sighed, "I won't miss this rotting grave, or-" She nods at Malik, "This little beast," Afrah sets a hand on Rishid's shoulder, grip steeling, "But you need to mind yourself, I can't be minding you much longer."

Rishid doesn't know what to say, words clumsy and clotted in his mouth, so he stares at her. In his grip, Malik has turned silky sleek, struggling and making bored noises. Absently, Rishid offers his hand to the boy, and Malik seizes Rishid's fingers, sucking on the nearest one and settling. There is an abrupt, unintended curl of affection in Rishid, but Afrah simply looks cruel.

"He'll bite," She comments, but Malik doesn't bite, and Afrah's attention turns like sour milk, "Rishid, you hear me?" Her fingers hurt in the groove of Rishid's shoulder.

He gives a stuttering nod, "I do," and she looks at him obliquely, eyes catching at the bruise on Rishid's cheek, and he flushes hotly at the attention, "Please, Afrah."

"You hear me fine," Afrah sighs, voice waning, "That doesn't mean you'll do anything about it," Something in Afrah quells, as if she wants to say something more, but can't bring herself to. Instead she pats him twice on the shoulder, "Stay safe, Rishid; you and I are kin," Afrah says at last, as if the words are aching, before she gestures to the door, "Now, go take the little viper away before he screams venom at me."

* * *

Malik is intelligent, in a way that frightens Rishid. Malik is barely walking - his feet unsure beneath him, crawling more often than not - and already he is trying to clamber freely around their home. He is too curious, and too eager, and shrieks with too much anger when Rishid plucks him up. 

If Malik knew the words, Rishid is certain the screeching noises Malik is making would be curses. A hot rain of rough cussing, and threats to accompany his thrashing limbs. Instead it is a mess of syllables, tone sharp and clearly directed at Rishid.

"Don't," Rishid warns when Malik kicks at his side, and the child's mouth snaps shut. Malik looks at him, eyes piercing and frowning petulantly, but settles against Rishid, tucking his legs up and curling his fingers in Rishid's tunic. He eyes Malik, gauging the rebellion in those searing eyes, "I mean it."

At last Malik gives off a disdainful huff, and drops his head against Rishid's shoulder.

Combing his fingers through the feathery-thin hair on Malik's head, Rishid startles when he hears Isis in the doorway. She looks so much like her mother, and yet looks at Rishid with a frankness passed to Isis from her father. It is an uncanny mix of the two, and Rishid dips his head in greeting, "Lady Isis-"

"If father hears you talking to Malik like that, he'll beat you."

Rishid swallows, adjusting the set of Malik on his hip, "If I do not talk to him like that, he would stick his hand in a nest of scorpions."

"Then father would whip you."

Isis does not bat an eyelash, expressionless and Rishid turns back to Malik with barely a shrug. He unpicks a strand of Malik's hair, and rubs at a dusty spot on his cheek. The movements are automatic, wasted even, when Malik's mouth snaps with a yawn, presses in close to Rishid whose hands feel oddly cold. He hears the matter of fact step of Isis as she leaves, and continues to stroke Malik's hair.

He is asleep, nested in Rishid's arms, and the weight of the boy aches in his hold. There is that strange, fierce urge to drop Malik upon the floor. It feel  _easy_ and that feels wrong, because Malik is a limp, trusting curl in his arms, and Rishid shouldn't feel like he's holding a loaded weapon rather than a child.

He adjusts Malik (thumbing at the trigger-) and there is a soft, satisfied sound from the little thing cupped in his arms. Again, it is the warmth of Malik's body, that stills Rishid unexpectedly. He is small, and slight, and so curious about living, and it is hardly his fault that he was born in death.

Sighing, Rishid runs the back of his knuckles against Malik's cheek, and Malik gives a dull, half-interested stir. Half-lidded, Malik's gaze lazily focuses on Rishid, and he gives off a series of cooing noises, the sounds feather-soft, delicate vowels. Soon, Malik will be snarling and screaming again, as he always does.

Rishid doesn't know what prompts him to speak, but he clears his voice, "Malik, shush" There is an immediate response; a bright chirp from Malik, eyes locking onto Rishid, "I didn't mean to-" For all of Malik's interest in Rishid's words, he has no idea what Rishid is saying, and Rishid breathes out, shoulders easing with the movement, "I didn't mean to wake you."

There is only a curious gurgle in response, the sound scratching high at the end, and Rishid can feel the shriek waiting in Malik's lungs, can feel the little body in his hands gather its breath in- Uneasily, Rishid's voice cracks into a song, "The night has ended-" He coughs; there is a grit in his voice, that was not there when he sang to Isis. Voice creaking on the notes, Rishid continues "The night has ended, and the sun has begun, and a- and a little bird sang  _sau sau._ "

His throat is rough, and the words are sore in his mouth, but Malik is captivated, silent in Rishid's grip. Uncertain, Rishid finishes the song, stumbling through the short tune, "He's calling out  _bes bes_ to the cat in the day, and she sang  _nau nau_ ,and frightened him away--" Rishid stops, unsure how the song goes from there. But Malik is quiet in Rishid's arms, and when Rishid looks down, he is gazing at him as though Rishid has given him the sun.

Haltingly, Rishid repeats the couplet, and then again, half-whispering, half-singing it into the hushed hollow between them. The waiting shriek drifts apart, as Malik goes limp again, nestling against Rishid's chest.

* * *

"Isis," Malik's sister is kneeling in front of him, staring him dead on and repeating her name in a slow mantra, "Isis, Isis, Isis," She looks up at Rishid, ignoring the tangle of limbs as Rishid tries to make something sensible of Malik's hair, "Why won't he talk?"

"Muh," Malik declares heatedly, jabbing a fist against Rishid's arm, and Rishid hooks it tighter on Malik's stomach. Stilling the child long enough to comb his hair a little more. All this does is elicit another hot rain of babble, accompanied by a shrill snarl. There is a feral twist of Malik's body, and Rishid grunts as he keeps the boy from slipping out of his arms.

"I don't think it's personal, Lady Isis," Rishid comments finally, gripping Malik more surely by the waist. The boy is eel-slick with his movements, trying to slither loose of Rishid's hold, but Rishid is implacable, holding Malik in place like a mother cat. He continues to pass the comb through Malik's hair, mindful of the teeth, even as Malik bares his at him.

Isis is unconvinced, studying her little brother with an angry glare. The feeling is not lost on Malik who sneers and yowls and glares back at her. Brushing a strand of her hair away from her face, Isis settles in her spot, "Isis," She repeats determinedly. Meticulously adjusts the errant strand, "Isis."

"Malk."

"Isis," She points at him with her fingers spread out respectfully, and Malik makes a point of kicking Rishid in the stomach, "Isis."

"Malk," Malik repeats firmly, "Malk, Malik."

This is apparently intolerable, and Isis gapes at Rishid. A moment passes, during which Rishid manages to sort out a parting at Malik's scalp, before she finally speaks up: "Did you hear  _that_?" Her nose is crinkling, offended.

"I heard that," Rishid confirms, unconcerned as he finishes combing Malik's hair. When Isis looks at him expectantly, Rishid simply shrugs, "Perhaps he will say your name next?" Privately, Rishid fancies Malik's first word is his own name not from vanity, but because Rishid is constantly calling out to the little viper, "There's nothing to be done now about his first."

"He said his  _own_ name," Isis repeats, scandalized.

"He did," Rishid agrees readily, finally releasing Malik. Immediately Malik lunges for Isis' hair, and she rears back, as his hands dig into the front of her tunic instead. Leaning forward, Rishid pulls Malik loose, lifting him into the air, "Apologies, Lady Isis."

"His own name," She tooth-clicks disapprovingly, "Malik."

"Malk," He sounds almost prim, giving a delighted squirm in Rishid's hold now. Malik seems almost captivated at being held aloft, grabbing fistfuls of the air with a proud, giggling babble. 

However, Isis' mouth merely sets into a line, "Not Malk," She corrects, "Malik," Isis gives a weary huff, "At least say it right, Malik."

* * *

Malik's vocabulary has expanded to a small range of words, straddling Egyptian and Arabic in fitful spurts. He insists on trying to speak Arabic with Rishid, and now, held in his father's arms, Malik is babbling in clearly Egyptian gibberish. There is an excited touch to Malik's voice even if he isn't speaking sense, and his small hands are gripping his father's tunic tightly. Lord Ishtar nods distractedly at Malik, one hand reaching up to prise Malik's mouth open - checking the boy's teeth - but Malik is too excited to care as his father inspects his mouth.

"He has most of his teeth," Rishid offers without prompting.

"Mh," Lord Ishtar lets go of Malik's mouth, and moves to pass Malik back to Rishid. There is a wild protest from Malik, who clings to his father through the entire exchange, but eventually Malik is pried away. Rishid balances Malik against his side, resting him on the outline of the hipbone.

There is an immediate, aggressive chatter from Malik, who tries to squirm for his father, and Rishid struggles to keep Malik in his arms.

"He's not too much trouble?" Malik's father asks, and the question is sharp enough that Rishid almost flinches. Instead he tips his head in a no, clicking his teeth quietly, keeping a firm grip on Malik, "Just strong?" This question is sharp too, but Rishid cannot tell how, and he pulls Malik close to his chest. Malik seems to have sensed the disquiet in Rishid, and tucks against Rishid, eyes wide and watching his father. The noisy chatter cuts off, and Malik's hands tense.

Rishid doesn't expect Lord Ishtar to wait so patiently for a reply, but finally, Rishid clears his throat: "Just strong, sir."

"Good," There is an odd, glassy look in the man's eyes, and Rishid cannot place it at first, until he remembers the reek of his mother's blood- the hand that presses Malik against Rishid feels almost numb. Tightens, and Malik is stiller in Rishid's arms than ever.

The moment passes, not quickly, but it does fade eventually like a deep bruise.

"And Isis?"

Rishid startles at the question, blinking, before answering slowly, "A little lonely, my Lord."

Lord Ishtar nods, a hand brushing at his beard, "She misses her mother."

"She does."

They all do, and the ache of it is a pull on Rishid's insides, like he is crumpling into himself. Malik makes a soft, uncertain noise, and Rishid instinctively offers Malik a finger to soothe him-

"You shouldn't do that," There is a rising warning in Lord Ishtar's voice, like a tide sinking its teeth into the sides of a ship; a deliberate threat. Rishid freezes, watching his master who proceeds to nod in Malik's direction, "Your hand is unclean; you shouldn't let him suck at it."

Rishid looks down at Malik, who is contently suckling at his finger, clutching at Rishid's hand like it is a lifeline. Rishid's eyebrows furrow; it is his right hand, not the left one. It should not be unclean.

"It is beneath him," Lord Ishtar states coolly, waiting for Rishid and Rishid realizes with a start that  _he_ is unclean. Reluctantly, Rishid pulls his hand away from Malik who makes an unhappy, whining noise of confusion. Satisfied, Malik's father nods, turning on his heel as Malik begins the first notes of a distressed wail.

* * *

Malik is balancing on his tip-toes, arms raised over his head and making a soft giggling mess of Rishid's name. It turns demanding after a moment, and Rishid crouches down to pick Malik up. Malik promptly presses against Rishid like a small cat, nuzzling and clinging. Sighing, Rishid combs at Malik's hair, trying to tease it into sense, and Malik huffs, thumping a fist on Rishid's chest.

"Don't," He tells Malik, catching the fist in one hand, and Malik sucks a huge breath in, "You know this won't work," Rishid raises an eyebrow, and patiently clicks his teeth at Malik, "You have to breathe eventually," Malik's nose crinkles, "You do."

"Don't," Malik scoffs, and it dissolves into a hiccough. A furious expression overtakes his face, and he renews his efforts to hold his breath. Malik judders, the hiccoughs making his body shake.

Rishid can't help but laugh at Malik fighting his hiccoughs, and Malik glares at him.

There is a tug on his sleeve, and Rishid twists to see Isis at his side, eyes round and mouth thin, "I want to hold him," She mumbles it, mouth twisting like a little sapling with discomfort.

Malik gives an angry hiccough, still thumping a fist against Rishid, "Now might not be the best time-" He begins, but Isis stares up at him with a fierce expression, mouth still twisted up.

Sighing, Rishid eases Malik into her arms, and Isis takes a step back to brace his weight, her eyes bright and focused. Malik looks scandalized at the change, and he launches into an angered shriek, the sound quelling with a hiccough. "Little brother," Isis practically yelps when Malik kicks at her moodily, and to her credit, she keeps her hold on Malik long enough for Rishid to bundle him back into his arms.

As soon as Malik is back against Rishid, he curls up, still hiccoughing. "He's fussy," Rishid tries to be kind, with Isis staring up at them, envy bright in her eyes.

"No," She tilts her head back, eyebrows raised, "He likes you," Isis sounds heart-broken, as though she's been left in the dust somehow, and Rishid moves one hand to Isis' hair, ruffling it into a mess, but she turns her face away from Rishid, expression steeped in shadows, "He's stupid."

"Don't say that about your brother," Rishid admonishes her, now smoothing her hair gently, but she doesn't turn to look at him, "Lady Isis-"

"Don't call me-" Isis scratches at the hem of her sleeve, turning further away from Rishid, "...I want mama," Her voice is soft, aching, and Rishid looks at her. Perhaps, properly for the first time since Malik was born. She is six, growing taller each day, and her little mouth crooks with pain. 

Bracing Malik on one hip, Rishid plucks Isis up by her waist, and she gives off a startled squeal. Rishid is growing stronger by the day, but he is unbalanced for a moment, trying to hold both of them in his arms. Swinging Isis round in a half-circle, Rishid can hear Malik giggling as Isis latches onto Rishid's shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut. Rishid swings back the other way, and Isis' feet scrape for the ground as Rishid slows. Setting her back down, Rishid practically tips Malik into her arms, and this time he chirps a happy mess of words at her.

Laughing, Isis holds Malik high in her arms, stumbling backwards and Rishid lets her brace against him. Steadying, Isis presses Malik against her and they smile at each other - immediately, Malik's hands latch onto her hair, eyes locked on the regalia, "Is mine!"

"Hey, no, Malik," Isis giggles, trying to shake her hair loose from his hands, and Rishid eventually slips a hand between them, gently loosens Malik's hands and holds them for a moment.

"Don't grab," Rishid moves Malik's hands to Isis' shoulders, "There, see."

"He's wriggly," Isis complains, when Malik puddles in her arms, "Ow-"

Malik has his hands back in her hair, talking with a bright tangle of sounds, "Mine," He declares clearly, "Is mine."

"No, Malik-" Isis manages to loosen a piece of coppery gold from her hair, and presses it into Malik's palm. Almost immediately he puts it into his mouth, and gnaws on it. Far from distressed by the cold, or hardness of the metal, Malik instead gives a satisfied hum, "You're trouble, huh?"

They eye each other, Malik still gumming at the gold, and then Malik looks away, more interested in chewing on the jewellery. When Isis moves to adjust Malik, her hands shaking from strain, Rishid reaches out for him, "Let me, my Lady," and Isis turns to stare at Rishid. Her eyes are flat, flashing in the low-laying light.

"Rishid..." She murmurs, voice straining, breaking under it, but her hands release Malik.

* * *

"No," Rishid crouches down next to Malik, pulls his thin arms to his sides, "You can't use that hand," The hold Rishid has on Malik's left hand is pinching around the bony wrist. Malik looks at him wide-eyed, a small noise picking at the back of his throat, "Malik," Rishid's gaze is steady, "It's unclean - you won't be allowed to use your left hand," Malik looks spooked, and Rishid gives a gentle smile, grip loosening, "You'll get in trouble, do you understand?"

There is an unsure nod ticking in Malik, and Rishid lets go of Malik - too late, he sees Malik's eyes check to the left, and upwards - and too late, Rishid can feel himself crunch wetly to the floor, "Rishid!" Malik yelps, but Rishid can feel Lord Ishtar's foot press in the hollow of his back.

"How dare you," The toe of the shoe clips at the boundary lines in Rishid's ribcage. Rishid is clever, and he stays down, keeps himself pressed into the cold stones. His bruises are hot, burning freshly in his back, and the ground is chilling.

"Rishid!" Malik's voice is stinging, shaking and sharp, as his father grips him by the wrist. Tightens on the young bones and pulls Malik away. Rishid can hear Malik's wrist click, can hear his feet scrape on the ground. Rishid is left alone on the floor, pulling himself back to his feet, and Malik is staring back over his shoulder at Rishid. His eyes are so wide, his pupils flash a glossy black.

"Come, Malik," Rishid presses a hand to the side of his head, thumbing a line of blood away from his skin. Ahead of him, Malik is pulled into his father's arms, and Rishid can see Malik go still, freezing fearfully in his father's arms. Rishid has to choke back a laugh; what does Malik have to fear from his father?

* * *

Mostly Malik talks in growing sentences, like a vine steadily creeping into adjectives, and syntax -- and always, always towards the light. He is fascinated by the skylight, and spends hours sat under it, face upturned towards the sky. These days Malik is more curious than ever, wandering further and further away from Rishid's side, like a shadow casting over the ground, and as always, Rishid finds Malik sitting under the skylight.

There is a fresh, mottling redness in Malik's face, and Rishid sighs, reaches towards Malik and pulls him to his feet, "Lord Malik," Rishid makes a small tooth-click, head tipping back slightly as he crouches down to look at the beginnings of the burn, "You sun more than a serpent in a new skin," Malik blushes, mouth crooking into a petulant scowl, looking off to the side. He scuffs a foot on the ground, determinedly glaring at the corner of Rishid's shoulder. Shaking his head, Rishid reaches out to brush back some of Malik's fringe, "Come on," Rishid gets to his feet, pressing his hand to the back of his neck, "We should have some aloe - maybe jasmine too."

"Don't need it," Malik replies sharply, and Rishid reaches out to pick him up with a snort.

"Of course, Lord Malik," Malik is not the small babe he once was, and Rishid takes a moment to settle Malik in his arms. The entire time, Malik's nose wrinkles, teeth showing, "Malik," Rishid chides, "You know your father won't be pleased."

Huffing, Malik twists in Rishid's grip like an eel, and Rishid hurries to get a more secure hold, "Don't care."

"I care," Rishid reaches for a torch on the wall, keeping it clear of Malik, but the sunburn must sting already, because Malik leans away from the flame, "It's your own fault."

"Don't care," Malik mutters quietly, but doesn't wriggle anymore until Rishid has set the torch in a wall-holder. As soon as the fire is out of Rishid's hands, Malik is squirming, and Rishid barely has time to set Malik down, before Malik darts between the shelves. There is a soft rattle of ceramic as Malik pulls pots from the lower-shelves, peering into them as he explores.

"Lord Malik, don't touch," Rishid adds, checking along the shelf for the aloe leaf he knows is there. There is a louder rattle, and Rishid stops to peer through the jars, "Malik, I said don't touch the pots."

"Am not," Malik retorts, "I found a jasmine."

Smiling tolerantly, Rishid squeezes the base of the aloe leaves, looking for the least bitter. None of the plants are as good as they were a few weeks ago, but there is give in their flesh, and Rishid finally chooses the plumpest of the leaves. Returning to the bench, Rishid finds Malik holding out a jar of ointment towards him. Setting it on the bench, Rishid nods his head, "Thank you, Lord Malik."

As Rishid moves to flay the sides and tips of the leaf, Malik huddles up against the edge of the bench, chin only just jutting over the edge, "Rishid," Malik reaches out to tug at Rishid's shift, "Needs to empty," Setting the knife away, Rishid scoops the pieces of the plant into a small bowl, "Rishid," Malik tugs harder, "The yellow, Rishid, it needs to empty, Rishid-"

"I know, I know," Rishid braces the plant upright in the bowl, watching the yellow liquid leak out. Scooping Malik up, Rishid sits him down on the far side of the counter, and leans in to study Malik's sunburn, "Your father will  _not_ be pleased," He dabs a pat of ointment onto his hand, dusting it on Malik's nose.

"Rub?" Malik asks, already scrubbing at the ointment with his fingers.

"Mh," Rishid gets in two more swipes of ointment, but by then, Malik has his face mostly covered in the greasy sheen of the cream. Picking the knife back up, Rishid taps the last of the latex out, before cutting along the grain of the plant, "What have we learnt today, Lord Malik?"

"Never," Malik swings his legs, thumping the pads of his feet to the underside of the bench. Looking up over the strips of aloe leaf, Rishid raises an eyebrow, but Malik is already kicking a small rhythm into the table. With a shrug, Rishid returns to filleting the gel. Almost absently, he cuts Malik a cube, and offers it to him. All but shoving it into his mouth, Malik is busy chewing on the aloe when Rishid sets a thin strip over Malik's nose.

"Hold it there," He instructs, cleaning the blade off. Malik's answer is messy, unintelligible through the half-eaten aloe, and Rishid eyes Malik, "Swallow first," Rishid scrapes the left over aloe into a jar, taking a chunk for himself and leaning back against the bench as he eats. 

There is a wet plat as Malik lets go of the aloe, and it slaps down his tunic, "Bleh," Malik complains, still through his mouthful of aloe, scraping the gel down his front up and squishing it back against his face, "Rishid," Malik's spare hand yanks on Rishid's sleeve, "Rishid, look."

"I'm looking."

As soon as Rishid is looking at Malik, the boy tries to lick the aloe into his mouth, and Rishid tuts, passing Malik his piece of aloe. Distracted by the new morsel, Malik loses his grip on the gel, and Rishid presses the aloe strip back into place carefully. Immediately, Malik beams at Rishid, his mouth a mess of bright teeth and half-chewed aloe, "Thank you!" 

* * *

The first time Malik sees rain, he is five, and warily circling the atrium, staring up at the ceiling. Afrah had told Rishid of places in Egypt where it rains every year, but Luxor is dry enough to crack a person's heart open, so Malik is transfixed. Afraid, but never enough, Malik abruptly thrusts his hand under the open skylight, and turns his palm towards the rain with an expression of wonder.

"Rishid!" He yells, turning back to look for him, "Rishid! Come here! Here!"

Rishid is already close on Malik's heels, and part of him wants to tug Malik away, but another part of him remembers his first rain. Feeling it cool on his skin, and instead of pulling Malik away by the crook of his arm, Rishid crouches down next to Malik.

"Rishid, look!" Malik has both hands under the thin rain, turning them this way and that, "Sky water," He declares, pressing both hands to his face and licks the water off his palms, "Look," Malik repeats, round a mouthful of his own tongue.

Rishid slowly leans forward, until the thin rain slicks at the back of his neck. He sighs, breathing in the cool air with relief, "Don't lick your hands, Malik."

"Am not," Malik reaches for the rain again, before looking at Rishid inquisitively. Rishid shuts his eyes, and tips his head slightly to feel the water cool along his jawline. After not even a second of deliberation, Malik juts his head under the skylight as well. Looking up, Malik stares at the muddy blue of the sky, wincing when water gets into his eyes, "Rain?" He asks.

"Rain."

"Mh," Malik lazes his mouth open, tipping his head right back and catching droplets between his teeth. Opening his eyes again, Malik narrows his eyes at the small circle of sky. When a trace of water slides into the corner of one eye, he closes it, but the other stays open, gaze burning. The air feels cool, but there is something almost like anger in Malik's stare. One hand drops to Rishid's sleeve, and tightens in it.

"Lord Malik?" His eyes open, and he turns to look at Malik carefully, "What is it?"

Malik's tiny, fragile jaw clenches, and his fingers tense, pulling tight, "How tall is a sky?" Rishid doesn't understand, and it must show on his face, because Malik tries again: "How  _far_ is a sky?"

"I don't understand, Malik," Rishid admits, rubbing a soothing hand through Malik's damp hair, but Malik jerks away. However, his fingers tighten even further in Rishid's sleeve. Sighing, Rishid waits for Malik's mood to settle, but Malik's gaze is as heated as ever, so instead Rishid gets to his feet, "Come on."

As soon as Rishid reaches out to pick Malik up, Malik thrashes, slapping Rishid's hand away, "Don't!"

Unimpressed, Rishid narrows his eyes, "You'll be sick if you don't change," Rishid plucks at one of Malik's sleeves, "You're wet."

"But," Malik hasn't moved, feet still stuck fast to the same place. He points a hand straight up at the skylight, and for one moment, Rishid is afraid - but he looks up, and there is nothing there. Just the same, dull-blue circlet of sky.

"Lord Malik," Rishid chides, and when he starts to lift Malik, Malik goes limp, trying to be as heavy as he can. By now the stones are rosetted with drying rain, the water seeping into the cracks, and the rain making Malik's dusty skin slippery. He almost slides loose from Rishid's hold, and Rishid yelps: "Malik!"

"Don't," There is a high-strung note in Malik's voice, the strain of a scream - and it stops Rishid, "Don't," Malik repeats, scrabbling for purchase on the words, "Don't."

Crouching by Malik again, Rishid cups the child's jaw with a patient, warm hand, "I'm not," He waits for Malik's breath to even out a little, "Malik, what do you want?"

Ashamed, Malik can't meet Rishid's gaze, but he nestles into Rishid's hand, "A sky," He admits, and Rishid can feel the shy touch of rain at the back of his neck, at the corner of his mouth - he can see it catching on Malik's hair. It is like the hungry child that Rishid does not have the power to feed, and he sighs, strokes Malik's cheek softly.

"I'm sorry," He tells Malik as gently as he can, and Malik finally looks up at him.

"It's very far?" Malik's voice wavers.

"Yes," Rishid confirms, "Further than anything in the entire world."

"That is very too far," His eyes are very round, as Malik considers how far the sky must be. His eyebrows crinkle, "How does the rain get down?"

"It falls," Rishid decides swiftly, "Falling is very quick," This answer seems to satisfy Malik, who tips his face back towards the rain, this time his eyes closed. After a moment, Rishid joins in, and they stay like that until the rain thins, and then passes.

* * *

He should have expected Malik to ask eventually, but he didn't; Malik had barely seemed like a person, with his mouth full of vowels, but then words, and then, perhaps inevitably, questions.

Rishid is sorting through the new supplies from the surface, arguing with Nasir about the number of carefully packed lentil jars. Where Malik was once wary about surface clan, almost wrapping around Rishid's leg during shipments, he is now lazing on the floor, nibbling on a handful of dates. Round a mouthful of sugar, he asks: "Does mother live up there?"

Nasir freezes, fixedly not looking at the heir. He never speaks to Malik, barely recognizes him save a polite aversion of his eyes, a careful step around Malik. It's Rishid who gives Malik handfuls of dates.

He stares at Rishid expectantly, but the forthright interest gives way to disquiet, "Does mother...not?" Malik's gaze flickers to Nasir, who is not staring emphatically at Rishid, "Rish?" Malik's voice is slow, catching.

"I can handle it from here," Rishid hands Nasir back the parchment, "Thank you, Lord Nasir."

"Peace, Rishid," Nasir murmurs, finally casting the quickest glance at Malik. Something weighs on his tongue, but Nasir shakes it off, patting Rishid on the shoulder, before leaving the storage room.

As soon as Nasir leaves, Malik edges towards Rishid, arms held ahead of him. His fingertips are sticky, and Rishid hesitates. There is a brief, deeply uncertain expression that flickers over Rishid's face, and then Malik's, before Rishid crouches down to let Malik wind close to him like a small cat, "Mother-" Rishid stops, something in him blurs painfully, " _Your_ mother is-" Malik has practically crawled into Rishid's lap, and he is warm, but Rishid feels cold, brittle, like he might snap in two, "She died a long time ago."

Malik knows death - he's presented dried-up beetles to Rishid, crushed moths in his hands, and squawked when they shed dust on him. Despite this, there is no sign of understanding in Malik's luminous eyes. They are wide, pupils bright in the pit of his gaze, like he could drink in every word Rishid has to say. But what is there to say? That Rishid blames Malik is true, but that does not make it any less cruel. Rishid doesn't say anything, and simply curls his arms around Malik, holding him close.

Shifting in Rishid's grip, Malik settles carefully, "Why?" He asks, wriggling closer to the rain-sound of Rishid's heart.

"The Gods traded for her," Rishid hates the thin, helpless creature in arms.

"Trade?" The fussing has stopped, Malik is as still as a frightened kit, like Rishid's arms are a circle of carrion birds, "Good trade?"

"No," Rishid's voice aches, and Malik is a dead-weight in his arms, something that grows too heavy to carry each day, "I would give anything to have her back," It is almost a prayer, and Rishid shuts his eyes. Bows his head. Rishid breaks, a single, cold sound of pain escaping him, and in the ribcage of his arms, Malik is as still and quiet and death.

Malik does not ask again for a long time.

* * *

Malik is not stung by scorpions in the end, but bitten by a snake. It isn't even Malik's fault; he wasn't playing with the beast, and he didn't goad it. Nobody knew it was in the atrium, and it came in angry, stunned from its fall. It latches onto one of Malik's skinny legs with a cracking hiss, and Rishid guts it with a ruthless efficiency.

Lord Ishtar is angry though, as though Rishid has tried to murder Malik. That brings a clawing feeling into Rishid's belly, leaves his nerves feverish.

"For our family to continue, it's not you I need," Rishid can feel a young bruise blotch, spread, as Malik's father shoves him back, "It's Malik," The man's eyes flick to Malik, "Do not think of leaving here, until Malik wakes."

Rishid does not think Malik  _will_ wake. 

Rishid has thought of murdering Malik from the first time he held the boy. Malik is young, and has not asked Rishid's life to be what it is. He did not ask to exist, and he did not ask to usurp Rishid's life, and he did not mean to inter his mother in the ground. Still, these things have happened, and Malik's own carelessness has left red welts across Rishid's wrists, a growing bruise between Rishid's shoulder blades, taught Rishid his place.

Malik will not wake; the family can die unfulfilled, buried in these tunnels alongside the only person to show Rishid kindness.

He cups the dagger in his hand, thumbing at the hilt, and stands over the child's bed. Shakes as he raises the dagger, thinks about what it will feel like to dash it into Malik's chest. It will not feel good to bleed a helpless child out - so he will make it quick, he will show kindness, he will strike for Malik's heart. Who knows if Malik will even recover from the poison? This way will hurt less.

"I'm sorry, brother," Malik whispers, voice thin and burning in his throat.

Flushing, Rishid ducks the knife behind his back as Malik's eyes slip open, "I'm so sorry... you're always getting hurt because of me."

And that is true, isn't it? That is what Rishid was thinking, but hearing the guilt and shame on the lips of a sick child is too much to believe it anymore. How can Malik be to blame for this? How could any of them be to blame for this?

Of all the questions that bump around in Rishid's skull, he is surprised by what he instead asks: "Did you just call me- brother?"

Malik's hand strains for him, combing at the air, small fingers clasping for Rishid, and eyes bright in the low light, "You've always been my big brother," Malik does not pause. Does not suggest a rite to prove it. Rishid has never allowed Malik to think that Rishid called Malik's mother his own. Perhaps the idea has come from Isis, but it is hot and clear and sincere in Malik's eyes. The expression is something Rishid recognizes, twisting something inside of him; an expression inherited from Malik's mother.

"Malik- Lord Malik," Rishid drops the knife, and it shamefully clatters on the stonework, but he needs his hands - needs them to take Malik's in his and holds it.

Rishid bends his head over Malik's hand, and cries into the back of his knuckles. Rishid's tears are cool, and Malik's skin is burning.

"Brother?" Malik's fear leaks into his voice, turns his tone pale, "Please don't cry, I didn't mean to make you cry."

Rishid cries harder then, but not without abandon. Keeps the noise of it low; something private between them. Something precious, and fragile as glass.

As his voice recovers, Rishid tells Malik that it is not his fault when Rishid is hurt. He tells Malik that he scared Rishid today. He tells Malik that he is sorry. Above-all, he tells Malik that he will protect him, that he will always protect him, and Malik clutches back at Rishid. There is still that low heat of poison in Malik's skin, but the darkness is cooling, and Malik's fever breaks before the torchlight does.

* * *

"Did you want to play?" Malik asks, flicking his hair back as he looks up at Rishid.

"You're just asking because Rishid'd let you win, and you're _losing_ ," Isis complains, combing a stray hair back with a practiced motion of her hand.

Scowling at her with a show of teeth, Malik's nose wrinkles, "I'm asking because I want to play with Rishid," His eyes narrow, "I am not losing," Malik focuses on the glittery cards cupped in his hand, and puts one down onto the field, "I set one card, and end my turn."

The game is a gift from Lord Ishtar to celebrate Isis' coming of age, and both the children are delighted by it, but the cards disturb Rishid. They remind him of the tablets locked in the vaults; that same watching feeling, as though something agonized and eternal watches just behind the image. Rishid has no desire to play the game, and he ducks his head, "I am content to watch."

Malik's face falls, but Isis adds a spellcard to her monster, "You  _are_ losing," She comments tartly, "I attack-"

"Mirror Force," Malik counters, flicking his trap up, and grinning at Isis across the table, "I am  _not_ losing."

There is little trace of emotion on Isis' face, as she drops her monsters one-by-one into the graveyard, "You  _are_ \- I have more life points than you."

"Well, you'll never win anything if you can't take a hit," Malik's voice is every bit as tart as Isis, as he draws his next card. He looks over his shoulder at Rishid hopefully, "Are you sure? Isis wouldn't mind if you played with her cards."

Rishid raises an eyebrow, expression shifting, "I think Lady Isis should decide that."

Isis is halfway through assuring Rishid she doesn't when Malik cuts over her: "She doesn't mind," He's studying his hand with a cool detachment.

"Lord Malik," Rishid can already hear the argument between the siblings, and is quick to cut it off, "The cards belong to Isis."

"So?" Malik sets a monster onto the field, and then two more set cards, "Isis has to do what I tell her, so it doesn't matter what she decides," It is a dangerous choice, but Isis looks like she wants to cry, so Rishid picks Malik's cards off the duel field, shuffling them back into the deck. Instantly, Malik glowers at Rishid, "Hey, those are mine!"

"No," Rishid corrects firmly, reshuffling the deck and passing it to Isis, "They are your sister's cards," He holds a hand out for the last cards in Malik's hand, and Malik pulls them close to his body, "Lord Malik."

"I don't have to do what you say," Malik spits, voice venomous, "You have to do what I say."

Rishid doesn't honour Malik's outburst with attention, "Malik, give your sister back her cards."

Angry, Malik tosses his cards down onto the table, and gets to his feet with a distasteful snarl on his face, "I don't have to do anything you want; you're _my_ servant."

"When you respect your sister better, maybe she will let you play with her again."

This time Malik actually spits, to the side and not at Rishid's feet, but his gaze settles on Rishid all the same, "You have to respect _me_ better, or else father-"  There is a sharp, painful sound as Isis lunges to her feet and slaps Malik across his face. He doesn't yelp, but there is a telltale set of pricks on his face where her nails have struck him.

Into Malik's silence, Isis all but screams at her brother, "Don't you ever think before you open your mouth?" She demands, face flushed, and eyes stinging with tears, "You can't say that, don't ever say that - do you want him to hurt Rishid? Is that what you want?"

Malik looks like she's slapped him a second time, shrinking away from Isis with a cut-open, horrified expression, "N-no."

"Then don't say that!" Isis yells, and Malik quivers on his spot, eyes blown wide. Instinctively, Rishid reaches out to tuck Malik's head against his side, his other hand reaching out to Isis. Malik is a shuddery tangle, clinging at Rishid, but Isis veers away from Rishid, staring down at her nails. There is the slightest fleck of blood on them, and she goes still, staring at them.

"It's okay, Lady Isis," Rishid's eyebrow furrows, "Wash your hands quickly - he doesn't have to know."

Isis bites her lip, and looks at Malik, and the tattlemark of scratches on his cheek, "I'm sorry, Malik," Isis wavers, her gaze flicking to Rishid, "He'll know."

"Wash your hands, Isis," Rishid orders sharply, but Isis doesn't move. Abruptly, it is Malik who does, hands jerking towards his face and roughly clawing at it. Rishid grabs Malik by his wrists, pulling his hands away, "Malik!"

"He doesn't have to know," Malik whines, his voice a jagged thing in the small of his throat, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He shudders, hands curling into small fists, "I didn't-"

"Ssh, shush," Dropping to his knees, Rishid brushes Malik's hair away from his face to look at him closely. There is a blotched flush, and the pale stripes of white scratches in the colour, but now the obvious ink-drops where Isis' nails met their mark are masked, "Isis, go wash your hands," Rishid repeats quietly, and finally, Isis bolts from the room. Rishid grazes the brimming tears away from Malik's eyes, "It's okay," He soothes, "Everything is okay," He doesn't have it in him to tell Malik, that now Rishid is in trouble for letting Malik get hurt.

"I don't want-" Malik is hiccoughing, eyes wide, and pupils a deep pitching colour, "I- I don't-"

"I know, I know."

Malik is wretched, shaking so hard, Rishid can feel it, "I tried- I don't want Isis to-"

"It's okay," Rishid brushed a fresh flare of tears away, "She won't be in trouble; you helped her," Even underneath the tears, Malik's face is flushed, and scratched up, "I know you don't want her to get hurt."

"I don't want any of you to get hurt," Malik is sobbing now, and Rishid pulls Malik against him, letting Malik whine into his shoulder. Smoothing Malik's hair, he shushes Malik gently, and waits until Malik tires from loud yowls, to a soft, heartbroken whimpering.

* * *

A week before Malik's tenth birthday, and coming of age, his father calls Malik to his chambers. It is unusual - Malik's father is distant from Malik, rarely spending time with him, and even less alone - but Rishid does not dwell on it. After-all, Malik is coming of age, and there is knowledge that must be passed down eventually. If anything, Rishid is less curious, and more resentful, at least until Malik returns. 

His excitement over his birthday has been gutted, and there is the scent of anxiety burning in the air. Immediately, Malik stalks to his room, huddling over his desk for hours. Now and then, Rishid leans into the doorway, but Malik doesn't look up when Rishid taps his knuckles on the stone, and each time Rishid leaves.

Much of the day passes, and Malik is as still as stone, so Rishid finally enters, holding a tray of food, "Malik," Rishid coaxes softly, "I have dinner for you."

"I'm not hungry," Malik snaps, but Rishid expected this.

"And why not?" Rishid remarks, "You should at least have some soup, you haven't eaten since before this-"

Malik goes from cool to burning in moments, lashing out at Rishid with a sharp movement, "Leave me alone!" Malik's arm catches under the train, almost sending the soup splashing on Rishid's stomach, but it only puddles on the ground with a wet crunch. 

Rishid crouches down to pick up the bowl, but he watches Malik curl back at his desk, "Malik..." He murmurs, and he sees Malik's back shudder.

"I'm sorry, Rishid," Finally Malik looks back at him, and there is  _fear_ in his eyes, mouth small and expression caving in, "Rishid...have you ever seen my father's back?"

He does not expect this question, but clicks his tongue as he gathers the thrown bowls in his hands, "No, never."

"He's got the markings of the ritual," Malik's face crumbles further, twisting as he explains, "On his back. He has the Pharaoh's secrets-" There is a horrified pause, and Malik shuts his eyes for a moment, "The Secrets of the Pharaoh's memories are carved on his back," It is crueller than Rishid had expected, but he doesn't know if he understands, because Malik turns away from him with a flinch, "He has to protect them with his life..."

Slowly getting back to his feet, Rishid adjusts the gathered bowls, letting them clack together, fitting them into their hollows. He can see the shiver in Malik's back that is there when Malik cries, something buried into his spine.

"I had no idea," Rishid manages.

It doesn't matter what Rishid has to say, Malik speaks like a cut wound, the words leeching from him, "I have to undergo the ritual next week," He curls onto the table, sobbing into his arms, "He says the pain is so awful you'll scream for a month!" Malik's voice is searing, "I'm so scared," Rishid tries to soothe Malik with a touch to his arm, but Malik cannot stop, bleeding fears all over the ground, "I don't think I can take it, I might even die," Malik shivers and shakes, words thinning, "Why- Why do I have to go through with it?"

There might be more, but Rishid rubs Malik's shoulder, shushing him gingerly, "Don't worry, Malik," He can feel Malik's shaking fade, "Please, don't worry; I will ask your father to let me take it in your place."

The trembling returns, Malik twisting round to stare at Rishid. His face is flushed, tears coating his face messily, "But," Malik yelps, "But-" There is horror in his eyes, and Rishid brushes Malik's fringe away, the strands sticking with the tears.

"It's okay," Rishid explains, "I've been prepared for a long time now."

Malik's face is a stain of confusion, and terror, "How could anybody be prepared for-" He cuts off, a cry choking in his throat, and Rishid thumbs a smudge of tears away from Malik's eyes, "Rishid, please don't. I don't want-"

"I have wanted to be accepted into your family for as long as I can remember," Malik opens his mouth, but for once Rishid speaks over him, "Please, allow me to swear myself to your family - to you - with this," Malik whines softly, and Rishid presses a hand to his own throat, "Please, Lord Malik, allow me this. I am ready to carry this burden for you." 

Malik hugs him then, holding Rishid tightly, but no matter how long Malik stays like that, no matter how softly Rishid hushes Malik, there is still a quiver lurking just under Malik's skin. It is telltale, like the pinprick stains of blood Isis left behind, and Rishid does not understand it.

* * *

"What?" Lord Ishtar is incredulous, staring down at Rishid with a mingled expression of contempt and disbelief, "You undergo the ritual?" 

Rishid is laid flat on the floor, pressing his forehead onto the cold ground. He can feel the hot trickle of sweat run down his neck, but he bows - sinks against the rock beneath him and begs frantically for this. For this at least, Rishid would beg, "I know it's unreasonable to ask it, but-" Rishid swallows, "But Lord Malik is afraid to undergo the ritual, I felt-" It is not wholly a lie, but Rishid can feel the truth squirming under his tongue like a serpent, like poison, "I want to serve him," He grits his teeth, "I want to serve our Clan, and protect its secrets."

That is not everything that Rishid wants, that is not the matter whole, and with Rishid bowed on the floor, the truth bleeds out.

"I only have one wish," Rishid speaks to the hard ground below him, lowering his head further, ashamed all at once, "To undergo the ritual, and be called your son-"

"Silence!" Lord Ishtar yowls it at him, yanking to his feet. There is the clatter, and the sharp feeling of the candle holder being cast across Rishid's back. He yelps, but through the pain, he can hear his master snarl, "You're only a servant."

Rishid can't even move, can't bear to look up. His devotion has been measured, and his loyalty has been weighed, and  _this_ is what Rishid - whole, complete - amounts to: only a servant. The resentment boils, burning in Rishid's throat.

"Get out of my sight," Lord Ishtar's voice is humiliation, "If you ever talk of our secrets again, I'll cut off your miserable tongue."

* * *

He does not tell Malik about what has happened; he is ashamed, and he is angry, and- and Malik cries out for him when they lead Malik away. Half-dragging him, Malik struggling and twisting back to stare at Rishid. His eyes are wide, and his voice is frantic, "Help me! Help me, Rishid!" 

Malik is a child. The same child Rishid cupped in his arms, the same child that was warm and soaked with their mother's blood. She asked Rishid to protect Malik. Rishid promised.

Malik's voice is a high-rattling, burning sound, "Rishid, help me!" The pleas leech together, soaking into a stained crying, "Rishid!" There is that hitch in Malik's voice that only happens when Malik sobs, "Rishid!"

She asked Rishid to protect his little brother, and now he closes his eyes, as Malik is pulled away, screaming and begging for Rishid's protection. This is not what she meant.

Perhaps Rishid should not have done it - the ritual is secret, something Rishid has no right to witness - but he tracks to the edge of the chamber. Tucking against the wall, Rishid listens, and waits. It is a long wait, but Rishid is patient. When he hears it, he wishes the wait had been longer.

He should never have selfishly begged to take Malik's place, he should have whole-heartedly wanted to protect Malik from this. Malik is screaming, howling like a wounded animal through his gag, like a jackal biting through its own bone to escape a trap.

Malik is a child- Malik is  _his_ child. His brother. Rishid raised him, fed him, soothed him. Malik bit and scratched his milk-mother, but never bit Rishid. When Rishid held Malik as a babe, Malik fell quiet, curled against him, listened to Rishid sing him tuneless lullabies. When Malik found rain, he showed Rishid, and when Malik was afraid, he went to Rishid.

He  _screamed_ for Rishid to save him, and now Malik is choking, gagging on his own shrieks, and Rishid can  _hear_ it, but he cannot go to him. He cannot save him. He cannot protect _his_ child. He cannot-

Rishid's knife has found his hand, nestling into his fingers, pressed into his palm like a frightened thing. But Rishid is not afraid; he should kill the man who makes Malik scream like this. But he cannot- he cannot- the sounds from Malik are burning in the air, scalding to hear, but the knife is so cool, and so cold. He cannot- but, Rishid's heart is still, steady. The knife is cold, and his blood is cooler still.

* * *

He can hear Malik sucking his breath in through his teeth, the air rattling around the back of Malik's throat. It is no sweeter a sound than Malik screaming, and Rishid can feel his heart ache to hear it. Stepping into Malik's room, he feels something break under his foot - the room has been torn through. Malik has not been idle, even with his back torn open, he's broken pots, and ripped parchments up.

Gathering his nerve, Rishid continues into the room, calling out as he approaches, "I'm here to change your bandages," Looking down at Malik's back, he can see the sickly stain of the blood, and part of Rishid recoils sharply. No matter how much he loves Malik, he cannot help but pause.

It is just as well; Malik throws a hand out, clawing in the air, "Don't touch me!" His voice pitches, groaning as he drops back onto the bed. Twitching in pain, Malik hisses, "Tell me-" And now Rishid is uncertain, not sure what to make of Malik's tone, "Tell me, Rishid, who do I hate for this?"

Malik twists back to bare his teeth at Rishid, but the distorted expression stops, "Rishid," His eye has caught on the bandaging under Rishid's hood, "Your face..."

"Lord Malik," Rishid reaches up to pull his hood low, "I cannot share the pain you are suffering from, I cannot carry your burden-"

Now Malik is frozen, staring at the long bandages over Rishid's face, "Rishid?" He asks softly. Malik's bandages are blood-soaked, and Rishid should have gutted Lord Ishtar like the snake in the atrium, but Lord Ishtar is Malik's father. It is no excuse for what he has done to Malik, but how can Rishid kill Malik's father? How can he take that away from Malik. He cannot undo the scar where Malik's skin once was; how can taking more away from Malik ever help?

"Then at the least, let me swear allegiance to you with this scar," This is not enough, and it will never be enough for Rishid, "Please."

Malik's eyes wander up and down the markings Rishid has had laid into his skin; he can feel Malik reading it. Finally, Malik throws his hand out again, this time his fingers are soft, beckoning. Rishid slips forward, kneeling by Malik's bedside, and Malik runs his fingertips across the glyphs. Where the scars sting, Malik's hand soothes.

"When I rule this family," Malik declares in a strong voice, not wavering for a moment, "You will  _always_ be part of it," His violet eyes are pretty twin flames, boring into Rishid's, "Brother," Malik savours the word.

* * *

Malik recovers, bit by bit, but only ever mostly. Something in Malik has been bled out, and it scares Rishid. Malik doesn't wander, and he doesn't go near the sky-lights. He is broken by the weight of what he carries, and whilst his body regains its strength, Malik's eyes do not regain their fire.

It is Rishid's idea, and he remembers that for the rest of his life.

"Malik," He holds Malik's hand. Warm where Malik is cold, and lost, "How far is a sky?" Rishid strokes Malik's fingers gently.

"That doesn't make sense," Malik answered tiredly, slowly, eyebrows furrowed.

"Your sister can take you. Even if only for an hour or two," Rishid murmurs, "To see the sky."

His brother looks at him then, for the first time since he traced his hands over Rishid's scars like braille, "...Outside?"

One day, Rishid will take his sister and brother out into the sand and sun. They will run, and they will never look back.

"Outside," Rishid affirms, leaning forward to kiss Malik across his brow.

* * *

Rishid wakes in the heat of his own blood. There is an empty hollow where his back once was, and his bound wrists ache. It is the latter, and not the former that holds his attention; and he groans just to hear his own voice again. His throat is cracked and sore from screaming-

"Still alive, huh?" The voice is familiar, but Rishid winces away from it. Expects his back to open up, and his spine to spill forth, "Bastard," Malik,  _his_ Malik. 

The words spill out instead, uneasy in Rishid's mouth, and shuddering with pain, he falls to his side to look up at Malik. Above him he can see something needle-bright in the firelight. There is a wet, slippery sound as Lord Ishtar's skin slides off Rishid's back in a smear. He can feel it scrape down his near-numb back, flesh against open wounds.

The rod drops with a snap on the cold ground. Malik stumbling forward, fingernails clawing at his scalp, and Rishid lurches towards him, "Rishid," Lord Ishtar is flayed behind Malik, cut open like aloe leaves, wet like rain, "What happened?" Malik's voice cracks.

"You mustn't look!" Rishid hooks his bound hands around Malik, tugging Malik against his chest.

Malik is  _bathed_ in his father's blood, and the heat of it leaks into Rishid. Rishid can't help but shake, shuddering from the cold guilt slathering in his gut: he should have killed Malik's father before this, before he ever laid a hand on Malik, before  _this_.

Thrashing in Rishid's arms, Malik is screaming for his father.

This is Rishid's fault.

Malik is crying, broken loose from the fractured ribcage of Rishid's arms, and is clutching against his father. Heaving sobs between his teeth, panting and gasping. Moving silently over the blood-threshed floor, Isis crouches down by Rishid. She looks at the abandoned athame of the Millennium Rod, and is so pale, Rishid thinks she may empty her stomach. Instead, precisely composed, she reaches for Rishid's knife, and lines it under the rope holding Rishid's wrists.

"The Other Malik did this," She whispers, shaking too hard to cut the bind, "He-"

There is a broken, wounded wail from Malik. It reverberates off the walls, rebounding around their home. Isis sucks in her breaths, steels her lungs and Rishid is free.

Grasping Isis by her wrists tightly, Rishid begs: "Don't let him know," Fearful, Isis looks to the back of her, where Malik is curled up against their mauled father. Rishid curls his hands on her shoulders, shaking lightly, "Never tell him, never-" Isis' eyes are wide, like Rishid could drown in them, "Never tell him."

Isis nods; once, then twice. Rishid's hold on her arms loosens, slowly but surely, but the guilt and shame is as tight as ever inside of Rishid. He can never allow Malik to know what his hands have done, Rishid will do anything to keep this from Malik. Rishid did this.


End file.
